[Firefoot]

Lómwë drew his grey-green cloak close about him, trying to block out the chill, hostile wind. The cloak, being of fine Lórien make, usually blocked out all but the sharpest and dampest winds, but now it was as if this breeze cut straight to him. Perhaps it was because the chill was not so much a physical as much an unearthly chill, one that seemed to gnaw at the corners of his mind and heart as well as his body.

“What say you, Lómwë? I think Tasa may have the right of it. And Malris, too, in his own way. This place belongs to others now. And not just some figments of our memories. Even the rocks seem haunted . . . and the wind . . . perhaps we should leave them be . . .”

“This place does not even feel like home to me,” said Lómwë flatly. “Not even a home in the hands of strangers, or even murderous strangers.” His eyes turned westward, where, were his view not obscured, he knew he would see naught but ocean stretching out where fair Beleriand once had lay, where his home had been. Himling… had been a fortress, a stronghold. But home – that had been little less than a day’s journey from here, in his small home with his wife and son. Home had been a place filled with love and warmth, and peace, however temporary and fleeting. Peace that was long gone, sunken beneath the waves like his home. This place held no warmth, no welcoming embrace. It had only ghosts – both of the memory and in reality – hostile ghosts, inhabiting even the rocks and the wind, as Endamir had said.

“Certainly, this place bears memories . . . many of them happy, though more of them sad. I remember Himring as it was – but no such place is this now. This is nothing but a cold, forbidding shell of the fortress it once was. Whatever – or whoever – inhabits this island now is not living, and I feel no welcome from them.” As he finished those words, a new wind whistled in their ears, seeming to carry the sound of harsh laughter. Lómwë shivered involuntarily. There seemed to be a mist about the mountain top, despite the sun shining overhead. “But welcoming or not, I think we have too much invested in this venture, too much of a purpose, to turn aside now. We should go forth warily, I think - we’ve been lucky so far; there’s no saying whether this luck, if luck it is, will continue . . .”

Lómwë looked up the rise to where the fortress had once stood, a short, easy hike away. Little remained . . . and yet, with a sudden flash of memory, Lómwë could see the fair city as it once had been. He felt a sudden desire as he had never felt in many long years to climb upon those high battlements and gaze out at the lands about him, to feel free and yet in control, to have only small concerns easily looked after. He wanted to recapture those last years of the Watchful Peace, to go back and experience them indefinitely.

Then the vision faded, leaving Lómwë feeling sick and empty inside.